


Cold Blood

by Germinal



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gunplay, M/M, Reluctant sadism, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Germinal/pseuds/Germinal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unsettled by the nature of his response to executing Le Cabuc, Enjolras requests correction from Combeferre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Completion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the Les Mis kink meme (http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=9177577#t9177577):
> 
> "... the reason Enjolras doesn't have sex is that violence, power, and cruelty are the only way he can get off, and acting on his fetish would be ethically repulsive to him. Most of the time, it's something he can just cut out of his life and not think about it.
> 
> And then the Le Cabuc scene happens.
> 
> He doesn't want to do it, but it has to be done, and as leader the job falls to him. Afterwards, he's nothing short of horrified by the sexualized thrill he got out of dragging a man through the mud and executing him."

At a glance, the stain that darkens the cuff of Enjolras' shirt could be dirt, could be ink, or could be blood. Seated at the most remote table in the Corinthe’s now-deserted shadows, his head in his hands, he tells himself he doesn't care to know which of these it is, although he does know. The mark that this blemish has made on his memory, he also knows, will prove indelible.

The memory of Le Cabuc’s scream is equally stubborn, a sound he cannot – or does not care to – erase from his mind. He turns the memory over, almost unwillingly, replaying the surprise he’d felt at the ease with which he’d brought the muscular dock-worker to his knees, the astonished face he’d turned to Enjolras, asking unspeakingly for a moment, for pause, for mercy. 

And Enjolras had granted it, hadn’t he? A minute to pray, if he liked, far more than many of the dead had been or would be allowed – far more than Enjolras expects to be granted himself. The normal rules do not apply here. Civility is what they choose to make it. 

The murderer’s eyes were wide, his mouth was trembling. It would have been the work of seconds to end it there, Enjolras’ head thrown back to meet his gaze, without tormenting the man with a moment’s reprieve to gather his thoughts. That moment, Enjolras now realises, horrorstruck, convulsively clenching his hands in his hair, had been his alone – a rare flash of exultation, a stepping back to survey how far his power could extend. 

It was not the knowledge of justice delivered that writhed at the root of the exultation he felt. It was simply, sordidly, the knowledge that he held the power of life and death over this man, that his capacity to cause him fear and suffering was as restricted or as limitless as he pleased. It was this that set his nerves quivering, tightened his grip on his watch, and quickened his breathing, and it was this that made the others look at him with expressions he still cannot bear to call to mind.

Le Cabuc’s face had held no repentance, no recognition of wrongdoing, no regret. There was only terror, in that final moment, with Enjolras still trembling from the effort of dragging him through the mud and then forcing him to his knees. Enjolras recalls twisting his fingers in the murderer’s hair and forcing his head up to meet the barrel of his pistol. The sudden spray of blood against the bright white of his shirtfront had set something shuddering deep in the pit of his stomach. 

This seems a lifetime ago, though it has been less than an hour. His impulsive, gratuitous kick at the dead body still seems to reverberate, as does his imperious command to dispose of the corpse, as though he couldn’t trust himself to remain with it still at his mercy. 

Enjolras’ mouth twists in an expression too mirthless to be called a smile. Although he'd taken care to guard against what Combeferre affectionately called his righteous fury going to his head, he hadn't foreseen the need to take precautions against this righteousness, this power, flooding through less exalted parts of his being.

Enjolras regards the hand that held the gun to the head of Le Cabuc as though it is no longer part of him. With an almost wondering expression, he holds it palm-down over the flame of the candle on the table before him until the heat becomes unbearable, and then he snatches it back, clenching his hand into a fist. The pain is nowhere near what he desires, what he deserves. 

No matter how insistently the voice of reason whispers in his ear that his actions were justified, and correct, and appropriate to his position as leader, it cannot drown out the howl of his knowledge of having willingly overstepped the mark, of having allowed himself to venture from the sanctified and dignified realm of justice into the kind of gratuitous pleasure against which he has always tried to steel himself. 

Heat pulses at his temples and still, appallingly, pools in the pit of his stomach when he thinks again about the violence he has inflicted. He digs his nails into his palms. Causing himself pain as a response to his desire to inflict pain on others is a useless, vicious circle of which he has always been aware and in which he has always sought to avoid entrapment – until now, brought low by a man unworthy of the honour, by the terrified look in his eyes that Enjolras delighted in setting ablaze, in exacerbating – 

‘Enjolras -?’

Combeferre’s arrival, his voice a mixture of caution and compassion, is more of a relief than he knows. Enjolras freezes and looks up, his hands at a standstill. Under Combeferre’s stare, he folds them on the table in front of him.

Combeferre sits down heavily opposite him, sliding his carbine to the side before resting his own hands on the table. He says: ‘Do you wish to – to discuss your actions? It was no more than his due. I know you had no wish to do it, and I know you had no choice,’ and Enjolras is overcome with appreciation, but cannot meet his gaze. 

‘It was more than that for me. My actions were necessary, yes, but the manner in which I conducted them was not.’

Perplexity furrows his friend’s brow. ‘Would it help to explain – where is it that you think you’ve done wrong? Do you feel you've transgressed?’

‘More than trangression, even. Combeferre – you know we keep each other’s secrets?’ 

Combeferre’s nod, the tilt of his head and sympathetic widening of his eyes, is all the invitation Enjolras needs to confess all. 

‘Know then, that I am not immune to desire, but – my impulses can be perverse. I cannot – I have never allowed myself to indulge them, and I have never been in any position to do so. But I did, almost, with that man. When I had him at my mercy, with all your eyes upon us, all of you invested in my capacity to be righteous, to dispense justice on behalf of you all, I couldn’t help but feel –’ 

His cheeks flush. ‘It goes to my head, do you understand? I won’t tell you what I had the desire to do, what I might have done to that man before killing him, had it not been in public view of you all.’

He bows his head, and indeed, has no desire to speak of the attentions he'd itched to visit on Le Cabuc – the wish to make him bleed, to bring his gun down hard across the side of his head, to force its barrel into his mouth until he gagged, to make him plead for his life simply because he could –

‘It was no more than his due,’ Combferre repeats. ‘The man had –’ and Enjolras cuts him off, shaking his head. 

‘It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that his actions merited my own. The pleasure that I took in it would have been the same had he been entirely innocent. And – this particular pleasure – when others speak of light, and softness, and being struck to the bone - ’ his harsh exhalation, in this context, must pass for laughter. ‘Well, this is as close as I can come to it. As close as I can come to pleasure. Do you understand?’

Combeferre is silent, but his eyes are meditative, and, his friend notes with a steady glance, not as revolted or uncomprehending as he might have expected. 

Enjolras sighs, his hands agitated once more. ‘You see the reasons for my aversion to – to intimacy? It is the opposite of high-minded principle, but for the material protection of anyone who might find themselves hurt by me, and to prevent me from repulsing myself. And in my actions towards that man I allowed myself to -’

Combeferre glances away for a second, then looks back and speaks quickly. ‘But this is something that can be separated from your – from the impulses you speak of. Your actions were on behalf of the barricade itself, they were necessary for the maintenance of order. That it became entangled with the ways in which you might derive pleasure is a matter of regret, perhaps, but not a cause for guilt or shame.’ 

He may be perfectly right. All that concerns Enjolras is that he cannot be permitted to escape from this unscathed, unaddressed, uncorrected. 

‘How do we resolve this impasse, then?’ Combeferre asks, and his tone denotes that time is of the essence, that they have no moment in which individualist brooding might be indulged, and Enjolras would acknowledge this himself if not so shaken. 

‘Well, brother, you have heard my confessions,’ Enjolras says, and they offer each other the ghost of a smile. ‘Will you also absolve me?’

‘If it is what you require. What do you need from me?’

Enjolras draws a deep breath. ‘If you are certain, then, I need – if you'll administer it, I believe I should prescribe myself a dose of my own medicine.’ 

The metaphor is not exact, but it will do. Enjolras is conscious that the time to finely hone his words is a luxury he now lacks, as do they all.

Combeferre holds his gaze. ‘On condition that it is over with quickly, and that afterwards you will allow yourself to return to your duties – then yes.’

Enjolras feels ready to weep with gratitude, and, standing up from the table, sighs in both relief and anticipation.

‘We should find somewhere more secluded, then, yes?’, Combeferre says gently, as though they are conducting a clandestine love-affair. 

Enjolras’ smile is still grim, but more like itself, as he nods towards the spiral staircase to their side.


	2. Correction

One hand tense against the wall at the top of the staircase, Enjolras surveys the cluttered shadows of the tavern’s upstairs room as Combeferre, looking incongruously placid beside him, adjusts his grip on the stock of his carbine.

'Let us be clear about our purpose here. You wish to empathise with that man in his last moments as a form of redress, is that it?'

'I can’t claim to be certain of the logic or philosophy behind this,’ Enjolras says absently, as though his mind is on other things or he wishes it to be. ‘By rights I should be made to experience a fraction of what I inflicted, at least. And then, with a fraction of this out of my system, we can both resume directing operations downstairs as required. Shall we begin?'

Without answering, but with sudden resolve, Combeferre closes the space between them and takes Enjolras by the collar. His hold is tentative where, as they both recall, Enjolras’ own grip on Le Cabuc had been harsh with the confidence temporarily instilled by righteous outrage, but anticipation of this moment has made Enjolras’ knees weak, ready to buckle at the slightest touch, and Combeferre is perfectly able to drag him forward a few stumbling steps into a relatively empty space at the centre of the room. 

Less hesitantly, he transfers his grip to Enjolras’ dishevelled hair and shoves him roughly to his knees. He takes a pace backward and, with care, levels the gun at Enjolras, watching his eyes widen and come to focus on its dull metal gleam.

Enjolras, his breathing gone quick and shallow, thinks of himself standing over Le Cabuc less than an hour ago, recalls the terror in the man‘s eyes. He clasps his hands tightly behind his back and tilts his face up until his lips lightly brush against the muzzle of the carbine. Letting his eyes fall shut, he runs his tongue over his lips and opens them further, and Combeferre, to Enjolras’ intense relief, pushes the gun deeper into his mouth without his having to request it. 

As he brings his lips together around the barrel, appreciating its smooth, solid weight on his tongue and the sharp taste of gunmetal, powder and grease, Enjolras feels the now familiar slow coil of heat in his stomach, the urge to grind his hips against empty air, and a certain appalling but inexorable hardening between his legs. 

Enjolras’ frantic unease at the way his desires have become entangled with his duties at the barricade is rapidly resolving into a more precise understanding of his mind and body’s response to violence and power. Where he finds himself in relation to them seems ultimately not to matter; the compulsion is the same. Despite his best efforts to suppress it he is undeniably and obviously aroused in this position, just as with Le Cabuc he found himself affected in more ways than he cares to admit.

When he can bring himself to open his eyes and look up, his cheeks flushed with guilt and discomfort on top of arousal, Combeferre is regarding him coolly with an edge of benign curiosity, as if assessing the initial stages of a thought-provoking experiment.

'Are we on the right track, Enjolras? You must tell me if this isn’t what you -'

' _Yes_ ,' Enjolras almost snaps. 'Don’t stop.’ 

In any other context, Combeferre might express dry amusement at Enjolras’ ability to issue commands even when on his knees at the point of a rifle. Instead, he remains silent as he trails the barrel of the carbine up the marble column of his friend’s bared throat, stroking it almost teasingly along the angle of his jaw before returning it to his mouth, where he lets it slide in and out of Enjolras’ parted lips until Enjolras pulls back, breathless and swallowing hard.

Light-headed with arousal, Enjolras looks up, his gaze unfocused, his lips swollen from the gun’s abrasion. 

Lowering the carbine to his side, Combeferre raises an eyebrow. ‘Is this enough?’ 

‘No,’ says Enjolras, his voice pitched halfway between petulance and desperation. ‘Not nearly enough - and, Combeferre, be harsher with me, please. Don’t spare my feelings.'

In a voice noticeably altered, colder and stiffer, Combeferre says: 'On your feet, then.’

As soon as Enjolras complies, Combeferre brings the back of his hand across his face with a smack that resounds in the room’s shadowy silence. Enjolras gasps, bright pink blossoming on his pale cheek, but makes no other response, his gaze lowered submissively. 

‘Strip to your shirtsleeves and go and stand against the wall,’ Combeferre continues. ‘Place your hands in front of you and keep your eyes ahead.'

His cheek still stinging, Enjolras shrugs off his jacket and his waistcoat, folding and placing them on the billiard table near the window with hands that are surprisingly steady for all that he is trembling in anticipation, and even more uncomfortably hard. He assumes the requested position, steadying his palms against the smoke-stained plaster of the tavern wall. 

Before he fixes his gaze in front of him, Enjolras has time to see Combeferre put down the gun with calm deliberation before slipping off his thick leather belt and doubling it over. He draws a deep breath and braces himself. The impact of the belt’s first stroke across his back is still shocking, and he gasps again, clenching his eyes shut in spite of his desire to obey.

‘You know we have no time to waste,’ Combeferre says, almost conversationally. ‘You know that you, in particular, have duties to resume.’

Enjolras stares at the wall. ‘Yes – ’

A second stroke descends, making him arch his back. 

‘Your concern is with our collective endeavour here, and our concern is with you. All other concerns need to be set aside. Any preoccupation with guilt, with self-recrimination, with shame for your own desires – let it go, Enjolras. Now is not the time.’

Two more blows land, deliberately and evenly spaced, before he can respond with another breathless ‘Yes –’, and his attention has shifted almost wholly to the flaming heat across his back and the fact that he is conscious of himself growing harder with every lash of the belt.

Twice more, and then a pause, in which Enjolras hears Combeferre swallow hard, his breathing audibly laboured. 

Presuming the matter is concluded, Enjolras moves to stand upright, his gaze still fixed ahead, but feels Combeferre set one hand on the small of his back with unexpected strength. 

'Hold still.’

Two more strokes land, seemingly harder than any before, and Enjolras feels himself writhe unabashedly.

Standing almost unbearably close behind him, Combeferre interlaces his fingers with Enjolras’, guiding Enjolras’ hand between his legs to where his cock is excruciatingly hard, and says, low and insistent, ‘You should see this through properly. Let it go.’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Enjolras says again, in automatic affirmation, and, scrabbling to open his trousers and bring his hand to his cock, he finds himself spilling into his clenched fist almost before the word is out of his mouth, still facing the wall, his eyes clamped shut.

When Combeferre steps away Enjolras feels obscurely bereft, and he swiftly concentrates on making himself presentable, bringing his breathing under control, even while surreptitiously wiping his hand off on his shirt-tail. 

By the time he turns around Combeferre is focusing his attention on another wall of the tavern, his back turned to Enjolras in what must pass for respectful silence. He waits until his friend is fully dressed again before he looks around and faintly shakes his head, widening his eyes with a tentative smile which Enjolras returns.

They draw close together in the room’s silent shadows and Combeferre wraps an arm around Enjolras, presses a kiss to his temple. 

‘Are you recovered?’

Enjolras’ breathing steadies as he leans into Combeferre. ‘Yes, quite - thank you.’ 

They move apart, but seem unable to take their eyes off each other. Eventually Enjolras drops his gaze and nods towards the staircase.

‘Let’s return to where we are needed.’

Before they descend, Combeferre picks up his carbine and raises an eyebrow at Enjolras. 

‘You should permit yourself relief more frequently than this, you know – and in more agreeable circumstances.’ 

Enjolras inclines his head in what might be casual agreement, but they are both conscious that the matter is now more or less academic.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, they clasp hands and silently walk out into the barricade's heavier silence and gathering dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I realised, about halfway through writing this, that the sequence of events in the book dictates that Grantaire would be asleep somewhere in the upstairs room throughout the time at which this is meant to be happening. I am choosing to pretend either that he sleeps through the whole thing, or that he wakes up and presumes it is some kind of drunken hallucination, and, for possibly the first time in his life, doesn’t wish to interrupt proceedings ;-).


End file.
